


Light a Candle

by Tethys_resort



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anxiety, Courage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Forgiveness, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Lantern Festivals, Loneliness, Midwinter, Moving On, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sailing, Self-Esteem Issues, Shame, Silmarils, Surviving, Survivor Guilt, feanor is mentioned enough to be a character, vingilote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28458996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tethys_resort/pseuds/Tethys_resort
Summary: The best Earendil and Elwing can say is that they tried.  And are still trying.  A hopeful story.Please check the tags for warnings.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur, Eärendil/Elwing (Tolkien)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Light a Candle

The Vingilote pitched as it ran down the back of the wave, hitting the trough with a crash and wallow before beginning the long run up the face of the next. Earendil swore he could hear Osse laughing and whooping in the distance. Nothing with malice, just the enthusiasm of a toddler with their favorite toy. 

This wave was steeper, the slope longer, and the Vingilote creaked as its prow reached skyward. Earendil hung onto the rail as the pitch grew and the ship started to slide sideways. He yelled, “Keep it steady,” down into the ship, and the crew holding the tiller redoubled their efforts. 

“I guess we miss Midwinter again.” The voice was barely audible above the storm and Earendil turned to see Aerandir braced in the doorway and climbing out. He latched his tether hooks into the brackets at Earendil’s perch before giving Earendil a wide grin through the flying water. “It is time to switch, so a Peaceful Midwinter to you, Lord Earendil.”

Earendil snorted, and then choked at the water in his nose. A Peaceful Midwinter indeed. 

He patted Aerandir’s shoulder and began the careful climb back inside, down through the storm baffles and into relative warmth and relative safety. 

Peaceful Midwinter, a Teleri way of saying Happy Midwinter. A Midwinter he was missing despite trying to get them all home in time. 

He might even have managed if this storm hadn’t arrived.

He shook his head as he gave climbing into his swaying hammock another try. Elros and Elrond are probably walking by now, possibly talking. He is missing all the milestones of their childhood. 

His worst memories are of Gondolin: battle and streets full of the dead and dying. His tutor had tried to cover his eyes as they ran but it hadn’t helped much. There were too many memories, they simmered and erupted at odd moments. Of an uncle turned strange and murderous. Of his grandfather screaming. Of an elf lord with hair the same color as his mother’s running away. Running back. Yelling over his shoulder, “Tuor, Idril! Get them to run! Don’t stop.”

He had always understood why Mother, Father, and Voronwe had sailed away.

He pulled the blankets up and settled in, rocked by the waves. He always sleeps better on stormy nights, the nightmares chased away by the roar of water. 

Nightmares full of empty rooms with battered toys scattered into the dead fireplace. The smell of blood hangs in the air, but he cannot find anyone alive or dead. He searches each house diligently but each is the same. As he walks through Sirion he can hear something scratching and chuckling behind him, clearing its throat in the over-bright sun of day. 

He jolted awake with his heart drowning out the waves. He stared into the dark, listening to the ship groan reassuringly as it sailed through the storm. 

Even if he missed every holiday of their childhood and every milestone, he would find a way to keep Elwing, Elros, and Elrond safe.

***

“Naneth?” The voice was tiny and Elwing winced. Her sons had learned to speak quietly when she sat and stared into that gem. 

The Silmaril. She both loved and hated it.

The heirloom and reminder of a glorious past.

The trade for parents and brothers she could only remember as brief snippets: the way hair had draped across a tunic, the scent of incense, the particular whisper of her father’s riding boots on the wood floor. The tune, but neither words nor voice nor face of a lullaby. The prize of being wounded and chased endlessly across Beleriand, terrified of discovery. Of being worshipped and expected to solve all of the settlement’s problems. 

How was she supposed to know if Earendil would be home for Midwinter? Why was it always her job to sort out the stupid arguments over things like shares of pasture for goats and drunk Mortals singing in the middle of the night? To lead the council, ruling over both Elves and Men much older and wiser?

But as long as she held the Silmaril, the lovely valuable Silmaril, she held these tasks.

And she could not give up the Silmaril. She loved the play of colors, soothing her when her throat tightened too much to speak and her feet tingled with the need to run. Blanking out the smell of blood and fire that drifted in at odd moments. Dampened the disappointed voices echoing in her ears. She knew the voices were the gulls, but the world slithered and changed sometimes so that they called, “Failure. Failure.” On bad nights without Earendil, the Silmaril whispered lullabies she could not understand and called her “ _wonderful_ ” and “ _incredible_ ” and “ _strong_ ”. All the things she knew she was not, but wished she was.

Filling her soul with the only bits of peace she owned. 

“Naneth?” 

She turned to snarl at the elfling standing next to her chair, and it whispered, _“You love your sons. Gentle, be gentle.”_

Elrond watched her with big eyes and she swallowed to clear the rasp of contained anxiety. “Elrond? Is something the matter?”

The elfling stared at her, she had no idea what ran through his head. But at his silence, some part of her screamed, “Bad mother, unfit parent.”

Finally he said, “I wanted to read the story of the horses again. But Elros wants the one about Lady Yavanna.”

She smiled and reached toward him. Elrond grinned and climbed into her arms, snuggling warm and trusting into her chest. He reached out and poked at the Silmaril where it sat on the table, caged into its necklace. She laughed, “I think it is your turn to wear it for story time.” 

Elrond laughed with delight and scooped up the Silmaril, pulling the carcanet over his head without undoing the clasp. It was far too large, and was in danger of sliding down his shoulders. He ducked his head and whispered, “And I lost rock-paper-scissors, so I had to be the one to tell you we accidentally dropped the top down the sink drain.”

Elwing burst into giggles. “I know how to fix that. Go get Elros and I’ll show you.” She smiled into his hair and hugged him closer before setting him down again. “And it is early enough that I think we’ll do two stories tonight.” 

She would take care of her beautiful, perfect sons. 

***

When he came home in the dark before dawn, Elwing was sitting and staring at one of the long taper candles they had purchased from Vanwa of the marshes. The beeswax was light and sweet, the ghost of summer on the meadows by the Sea. It had melted down into long runnels, leaving one bare inch of candle yet to burn. 

“My love?” Earendil didn’t want to startle Elwing. “Have you been here all night?” 

She had taken up hours similar to his: waking with the dusk, shopping in the evening market, watching the dawn and curling together into their dark cool bedroom before noon. It didn’t seem to matter much to their shopping or meeting with friends. And that way they saw each other just a little more than they had years ago when he was at Sea, hunting for Valinor.

“My love?”

A sob or maybe a gasp. “Elros chose the path of Men.” A hurt not fixed in ten years. Maybe not a hundred or a thousand.

Earendil sighed in stifled grief as he sat down on the bench next to her. “Yes.”

“He must have hated me. The mother who ran away.” She choked. “The mother who did not protect, instead entranced by a bauble.”

He leaned against her, trying to coax her into his arms. “A mother who loved them, and cared for them the best she could.”

She was stiff in his arms, her head turned back toward the dying candle. “The mother who counted a gemstone more valuable than their lives, the Elves and Men of Sirion, or even her own.”

He hugged her closer, trying to silence the memories of equal guilt.

It was the last battle the Vingilote had fought in the War. Even with Eonwe, Ilmare and their hosts it had almost killed them all. They had been rammed. Several of the Vanya warriors had been crushed in the impact and one side of the Vingilote was splintered, barely holding together. Wounded elves, Maia and birds were stretched down the deck, the dead stacked to one side. Under the blood, parts of the deck were still warped and singed from the battle with Ancalagon.

King Gil-galad, unfamiliar except from the far side of battle conferences, had shoved his way between the Maiar and even the Valar crowded around the Vingilote. 

He gave a Maia of Yavanna a cold look when she backed into him and straightened his crown. “Lord Earendil, I must speak to you.”

Earendil was exhausted, the dead and wounded were being unloaded from the ship, carried into the Vanya encampment with healers running to meet them. “What?”

“Your sons, Elrond and Elros arrived in my camp. The Fean- Maedhros and Maglor sent them to us.” He looked around awkwardly. “Before they came here.”

Earendil spoke without thinking. Every morning and night he swore it had happened because he was tired. Because that would make it a little less his fault. He had exclaimed, “Still alive?”

King Gil-galad grabbed his hands. “Yes! The Feanorians have had them all these years, we can go-“

“Do they even remember me? They must be little miniatures of the Sons by now.” It came out much more harshly than he had meant. Whatever he had meant.

King Gil-galad lurched back. He took a deep breath in the widening pool of stunned silence. “Yes, they are perfect little miniatures of Maedhros and Maglor and quite loyal to them.” He had turned on his heel, stomping off with such force that his heels indented the packed earth. 

He should have run after him. Apologized. 

He should have demanded to go to the Noldor encampment. He should have demanded to go to his sons. Instead the Maia and Valar crowded in to hear his report and Lord Tulkas dragged him off. He never should have left Middle Earth without even seeing Elros and Elrond.

Of course he had confessed the entire thing to Elwing. 

And of course she had hated him. 

But they could no more leave each other than he could put his finger into the flame of the candle now guttering on the table and hold it there. His arms tightened around her and he began to cry, face buried in her shoulder. “We did try, love.”

“But the Sons of Feanor did better.” She turned so that they could cling to each other, hiding from the candle. 

He sighed, the words forced out. “Yes.”

***

Elwing awoke in the late afternoon and watched the sun set over the mountains. In Sirion, she had often sat and watched the sunset with Elros and Elrond playing nearby. 

It made a good excuse to just sit and watch the Sea, watch for Earendil and not think about anything at all.

That last day she had shoved them out the door, told them to run as they had been trained. To hide, to wait, to live. That whatever happened she loved them, that whatever happened they had to hold on because someone would come to rescue them and take them home. 

She had lied.

She had told the truth.

She had watched them run into the reeds with tears in her eyes. She had turned and slipped the Silmaril around her neck, as proper for the Queen. Picked up her knives and her bow, also as proper. 

She had run toward the fight, hating every step. Still the Queen.

She had leapt, choosing the only fate that kept the Silmaril from Maglor Feanorian but knowing she was condemning her sons to the fate of her brothers. Still the Queen.

Elwing walked down to the docks with Earendil and then went to the boat market, open even this late, with giant Feanorian lamps lighting the wares on the little flat bottomed boats that lined the wide floating piers. 

A light bearing the name of “Feanor” in the place he and his sons had slaughtered the innocent, just like Doriath and Sirion. Had slaughtered her sons. 

One of her first trips into the market she had asked one of the shopkeepers how they could bear such a thing in their city. 

The shopkeeper had stared blankly, then said, “Well… I hadn’t given the name much thought, now had I?” She nodded up at the giant brass filigree sunflower. “That’s one of the old ones, King Olwe brought a whole group down into the dark and said they were the first ones made, a gift from Tirion.”

“But Feanor….” Elwing felt cold fury winding into dizzy terror.

As she swayed, the shopkeeper grabbed her and towed her onto the tiny boat and behind displays of crackers and cookies. She was shoved onto a big canvas cushion and sat blankly, staring at the light. The shopkeeper handed her a handful of little salty crackers sprinkled with seaweed and out of reflex Elwing stuck one in her mouth and chewed. 

The shopkeeper stared at her in gentle silence before saying, “My son was a navigator on the _Water Road_. He died during the attack.” She reached out and brushed a lock of hair out of Elwing’s eyes. “Most of us lost somebody, some of us lost everybody. Some of us Faded, there in the dark and the blood.”

She handed Elwing another stack of crackers. “Most of us will never be the same, we can only grasp at the bare rope ends of going onward.” A tear rolled down her cheek even as she smiled. “But if you went to Tirion, they too lost loved ones. And as we walked in the dark, the Feanorian lamps came and Lord Ulmo told us to hold onto hope.”

She smiled, tears now glittering under the light. “And then the Sun and Moon rose and we couldn’t hate hope anymore.” She cupped Elwing’s cheek. “You are so young. Too young to have sons. Too young and forced to be Queen. You should be safe with your parents, learning to fish and sing with Maia in the tide pools.”

This time Elwing smiled up at the familiar lamp, and walked to Nenyu’s boat. The shopkeeper looked up and smiled. “Elwing! Come share dinner with me!”

Elwing swung her hamper to the other hand as she climbed aboard and tucked it neatly under the displays. “I tried bread again, this time with nuts. You’ll have to tell me what you think.”

Nenyu laughed. “Here, first try these.” She set a plate of the hard round rice crackers in front of Elwing. “I purchased a new spice this week, I think you’ll like it.”

Elwing crunched through the sweet sticky glaze on the cracker. As she chewed, her mouth began to fill with eye watering heat. “This is really good!” Nenyu laughed and handed her a one of the plain soft crackers to take the sting away. “I’ll have to get some for Earendil.”

Nenyu’s eyebrows rose. “So you will purchase snacks for your husband and kindly eat them all yourself?” They both laughed, Earendil’s intolerance for spicy foods was legendary. 

Elwing stuck another cracker into her mouth. As she chewed, a little better prepared for the spiciness this time, she wondered if Elrond or Elros liked spicy things.

***

Elwing sat on the cliffs in the shadow of the tower. Down at the pier she could see the Vingilote preparing for its evening flight. Fewer casks of water and boxes of food. But mail and greaves, stacks of arrows and the fine metal mesh that they used to protect the sails from sharp claws. 

The open sky was dangerous and she treasured the times he came home and stayed for a few days or even a week. Earendil always went without complaint, only wincing when he was ordered on longer trips of weeks or months. 

Sometimes returning with fewer sailors and a damaged boat. 

They had argued again this evening. He said, “It is Midwinter. Come up with me.”

She wanted to go with him, to not always be the one left behind on the shore.

“No.” She had tried before. But could not, the memories of battle lived on in her skin. The clacks of the warning like the tiny crushed noises her mother’s tea set had made. The crew as they ran for their stations the running feet of the Feanorians as they rushed through Sirion. 

She could not, would not try again. The sweat she could feel running down her back spurred her onward. “You ask too much. You are selfish and greedy.”

He stood and looked at her before smiling very slightly. “Maybe. Maybe so.” He cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead. “Will you spend tonight up at the Palace?”

She nodded and he grinned in response before turning on his heel and quietly walking down to the dock at the base of the cliffs. 

As swan, it had been a different thing. She had been a different thing. Not lesser, but free. The swan did not fear the fight. The swan did not fear swords or fire or death. The swan had no need to plan for the future or fear the past. It only was. In the now, the swan had opened its wings and flown away, seeking the open sky. The swan had landed on the boat because it wanted to, because its mate was there. 

She had told that to Lady Galrinen one evening when Earendil had been gone for three weeks, the first long trip after the War. Queen Glarinen, King Olwe’s wife. A real queen, not the sad actor she had been. 

This time Elwing had confessed what a terrible mother she had been. How Earendil had left Elros and Elrond in Middle Earth and how they were probably better off there. How she had been better as a swan than a Queen.

Despite wearing the undyed white of mourning and the scars of battle from taking the Fleet across into the War, she had pulled Elwing into a hug. “Oh, niece. My poor niece. Have hope, okay?”

(Early on, Elwing tried to explain that she wasn’t a niece but Galrinen had laughed and started counting on her fingers. “Then, welcome great-great grandniece.”) 

Have hope. 

She wished she could. And she wished for courage. She wished she could sail out next to Earendil, still fearless like the swan had been. But she could not stay a swan then, and since had never managed to recapture the swan she had been.

They were weighing the anchors and throwing off the tie downs that held the ship in place on the water. The Silmaril, still in its carcanet, hung in pride around the swan’s neck. Earendil paused, looking up to the tower and finding her in its shadows. He smiled and waved. 

Despite her refusal, he smiled and asked her to come with him every Midwinter and Shortest Night, twice a year like a clock. 

She crept up to the edge, staring off into the Sea below the point. The waves had the cold roar of the storms that usually came after Midwinter. How had everyone except her become so strong? 

She refused to think longer, this time she would get it right.

Tonight she would be the swan again or die in the attempt. Elwing took a deep breath and leapt from the cliff in front of her tower, seeking her wings. 

She plummeted downward.

He screamed her name, her love who had somehow outdistanced her. 

And as the spray lashed at her face, she swooped up again, lofting up on the draft. 

The yelling faded behind her, the clouds beckoned and the stars above. She rowed for height, headed straight East and into the wind. This was like the flight before, and maybe everything in the middle was a dream. She would go away on the wind and never return.

A great light appeared to one side. The light brought back memories. 

The Vingilote. The Silmaril looped around the figurehead and lighting the way.

And her mate, standing at the rail calling, “Elwing my love, you’ve done it. My love, can you hear me? You did it. Now please, please come here to me.”

***

He had never seen such courage.

Elwing had almost scared him into wetting his pants with that stunt. But she always did, and always triumphed. You’d think he’d be used to it by now. His imperious wife, always summoning her courage and continuing on no matter what came.

He always came back to the Vingilote, his dangerous and beautiful sanctuary. She had never needed a sanctuary. Instead she made a home at the tower and then made friends, going onward despite unfamiliarity and loneliness. 

And she had the greatness of heart to forgive him for everything. 

Earendil thought Elwing’s second landing as a swan went better than her first. 

That first time, she had swept in from a cloudless sky and flapped awkwardly around the boat in circles for hours as the sun set and the Silmaril glowed in its necklace. The crew had watched, and discussed if there was a way to lure the swan onto the deck. Aerandir had suggested a cargo net. 

In retrospect, it’s a good thing they hadn’t tried netting his wife. 

Before they could put the idea into practice, she had turned sharply and collided with him. They had crashed to the deck in a heap of thrashing arms and wings and pedaling feet. The scratches and bruises had stayed for weeks.

This time she lofted next to the Vingilote, her wings barely moving. Then, she side slipped and landed on the deck with a heavy thud before folding her wings and ruffling her feathers. 

He scrambled forward. “Love?” Her eyes were clear and gold, totally fearless. He swallowed the fear that she would not know him. “Love? Come with me up to the observation deck?”

Her eyes focused on his face and she stepped down the deck with him, slightly ungainly with her wide flat feet, as he went to the front of the ship and out of the way of the crew. He climbed the ladder, and she bounced up in a few effortless flaps. Together they stared off into the stars and down at the waves over the short rail. 

“Sir? Maybe this would help?” His Second tossed up a pair of the thick cushions used as seating below decks. He set them out next to each other and the swan settled in, tucking her long neck over the short rail to stare at the water far below the bow. His Second watched from the ladder and then said, “What do we do now?”

Earendil looked at his wife the swan. “Sail on, I guess?”

He sat down on the other cushion and watched quietly as the great wing sails were set more properly and they could truly fly. The swan turned her head to stare up at the stars and then looked at him. “Tonight we were going over Numenor, a very short flight but one we take every Midwinter Night.” He cleared his throat and whispered. “Thank you for coming with me.”

A basket and a blanket were shoved over the edge of the deck and Earendil stifled a snort. “Love, I have a blanket if you are cold.” He stared at the feathers ruffling slightly in the breeze. “Maybe not, you have a down jacket. And a basket of-“ He lifted the lid. “A bottle of wine and two mugs, I don’t know how you’re going to hold that. Some fruit cookies. And some ham and cheese sandwiches. Can swans eat ham and cheese, or will it give you indigestion?”

He opened the wine and poured the mugs full, setting one in front of the swan before unwrapping a sandwich. He stared at it. “Maybe I can feed you the crusts?”

The swan turned and bit him on the ankle. Hard. 

***

Comfortable on a cushion, with a sandwich and cookies on a napkin, and a mug of wine beside, Elwing watched the Sea drift below them. The wind was light and cold, and she could actually hear the stars: they rustled like her memory of the trees in Menegroth. 

Earendil was eating his sandwich and watching her, the crew and the night sky. Scanning for trouble, she supposed. 

_“The cookies are very good.”_ She tried mind speech. 

The response was vibrant with delight. _“Oh love, you can mind speak! I wasn’t sure if you could, in that form.”_

She hadn’t been sure she could either. 

She could hear another voice in her mind too, though. Very faint but warm with love and approval. _“Well done, daughter.”_ The Silmaril, just as she had always imagined she had heard it in Sirion.

Earendil looked sideways at her. _“Can you hear it?”_

 _“Yes?”_ She had always assumed it was her imagination. 

He smiled. _“Most can, after a while.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“Feanor, or some part of Feanor we think.”_

She gasped and whirled to stare at him. _“It burnt his sons! How cruel can he be?”_

He sighed. _“If you sit close to the Silmaril long enough, you notice it is two layers. One is that voice, the other the pure power of the Valar. Varda, we think.”_ He dropped his eyes. “ _We first noticed when it screamed and begged to not hurt the sons. Just, “please, not the sons, not the sons” over and over. It wept for days after Maedhros ju- you know…“_

He broke off, staring at the bright and glorious fire affixed to the front of his boat. _“Elwing? How often did we, all of us, not just you and I, simply assume a truth?”_

She stared at Earendil wiping tears absently. _“What if we, the Elves of Sirion, the Elves of Thingol’s Realm, the Sons of Feanor, and even the Valar themselves were all crashing about into each other’s assumptions and stupid pride?”_ His mind voice was crying too. _“What could have been different?”_

His pain pulled her off the cushion and she shuffled over and sprawled into his lap. He wrapped up around her, cradling her against his chest. In the distance granted by the swan she wondered again: How do you earn hope? Forgiveness?

Watching the stars she wondered if it was simply granted, like moonlight and rainfall.

 _“I don’t know. Maybe…”_ She stared down at the Palace under construction as lanterns began to drift up toward them. As they watched, one with “ **Our parents, all of them** ,” written on the side lofted past the Silmaril and over the bow. It was followed by another that simply said, in tidy characters, “ **The Valar know who we miss.** ” 

She snuggled a little closer as Earendil’s fingers caressed her through her feathers. _“Maybe we can still change it for the better…”_

***

When Elrond found Elros, he was standing in an empty courtyard on the far side of the administrative buildings and in the new library under construction. “Elros?”

Elros smiled at him in the dark and beckoned with the hand holding the unlit lantern. “Elrond! Come out here a moment. I want to show you something.”

Elrond stepped carefully around the piles of brick, and narrowly avoided falling into a sudden trench. The lantern he had carefully constructed of light paper and reeds was awkward to carry about unlit in the dark. He looked at Elros and then around the construction zone. It still looked much like it had last week when Elros had dragged him through on a tour, chattering at speed about foundations and city planning. City planning wasn’t a particular interest of his. It had washed past him but he thought Erestor had been taking notes. 

Elros looked at him and rolled his eyes. “One day you’ll thank Erestor for taking good notes.” He grabbed Elrond’s braids and pulled his head up. “It’s right on time.”

There, floating high as a pinprick of light and an outline of a ship halfway into reality, was the Vingilote. 

Elrond’s jaw dropped and Elros chuckled. “That’s why I wanted to you to come this year. It’s been doing that for at least 10 years, I noticed when we started the lantern release at midnight.” The chuckle deepened to outright laughter. “I figured it out when Erestor mentioned something. Our father has a schedule: Shortest Night watching Lindon and Midwinter watching Numenor.” 

Elrond jerked his head free and turned to stare at his brother as Elros said, “Do you think when we’re parents we’ll literally hover over our children?” Then started to laugh, doubling up and wheezing as Elros snickered at his own joke.

Still laughing, they sat to watch and wait the short time longer before midnight. 


End file.
